


spoils of war

by alexanderlightweight



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Bond, Political Alliances, Possessive Magnus Bane, Prince of Hell Magnus Bane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29956773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderlightweight/pseuds/alexanderlightweight
Summary: The Shadowworld needs peace and what better way to ensure it than a political hostage under the guise of an arranged marriage.A single nephilim sacrificed to a Prince of Hell is far better a price to pay, than Edom laying waste to the hallowed lands of Alicante.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 181





	spoils of war

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by Saeth from [alxndrlightwoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alxndrlightwoods/pseuds/alxndrlightwoods) as one of their prompts

Alec shudders under the weight of the cloak as it’s placed over his shoulders. His head remains bowed, his eyes not yet meeting his newly proclaimed husband. 

It should feel like mockery. It  _ is  _ in fact blasphemy, but Alec can’t help but accept the warmth of the cloak around him. There had been shock in the hall when his fiancé had entered wearing it. There had been murmurs of outrage and even the Downworlders had been surprised and a bit horrified.

After all, it’s not everyday that a prince of hell enters into hallowed nephilim grounds while wearing a cloak made from nephilim feathers. Feather that had been plucked from their wings after death or during torture. 

It wasn’t unheard of for someone to steal or claim a feather from a nephilim after their death. To the victor go the spoils and in war, much is pillaged. Despite their personal and private nature, nephilim wings were valued and highly magical.

Yet Magnus Bane is the only one who had not only dared, but purposefully gone into battle for the sake of harvesting entire wings. Only the prettiest. It was said that he’d been seen once on the battlefield, discarding a handful of priceless feathers because they weren’t to his taste.

That he’d entered the hall, on the day of a treaty, wearing a cloak made of the spoils of their war and then claimed Alec with it. It was... terrifyingly intoxicating. 

Alec should be horrified. He knows his family is, but he feels the weight of a thousand deaths upon his back and instead the knowledge makes him hot. A hand cups his chin — warm skin and cool metal and sharp nails — as his head is lifted. 

He swallows, unable to do anything else as his gaze meets molten gold and he must make some noise, because a thumb dips into the bow of his lip. Magnus Bane smiles at him and it’s the most sacred vow he’s ever born witness to. Because there in the predatory curl of Magnus’ lips lies a promise, and Alec prays to angels and demons both at just what that promise bears. He has no doubts the lengths his new husband will go to carry them out.

His gift is... less extravagant in the terms of visual terror but it holds enough weight to him that he hopes it’s understood.

The Shadowworld needs this peace and Alec will humble himself if need be. There is a hiss from the crowd when his weapons materialize but the magic that can keep away his armory is rare indeed. Bane’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doubts the prince fears an assassination attempt .

Instead he very slowly — careful not to let the cloak drop from his shoulders and risk adding insult— offers Asmodeus’ heir first his bow and then his quiver. Alec can feel his family’s gaze on him, the incredulousness from the nephilim side of the hall. He keeps his grip steady however and watches as Bane runs nails the color of blood down what once was  _ his  _ bow with exaggerated slowness before a gleam enters his gold eyes and with a snap of his fingers, the weapons vanish.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. As though there is a trance upon him, until the bond that is to link them together is set.

Then it is all he can do to force himself to breathe. To remember how to sip oxygen from the air and how to expel it once again.

Bane doesn’t touch him again, but he doesn’t need to.

His magic is overwhelmingly present and his gaze is like a physical claim. Alec lets himself drift into it, lets it hold him up and finds himself almost wanting to ask for it to consume him. This wasn’t what he’d expected when this union had been planned, but he finds it is a relief. Though no other nephilim would agree in his stead.

There is no need for a kiss. This is politics, not love. Furthermore, it would be a disgrace to every single nephilim present and Alec has been told,  _ ordered, _ to make this as painless for them as possible. Yet even with all of that knowledge, his eyes can’t seem to pick what he wants to stare at more. Bane’s eyes, or his mouth.

The bond clicks into place, a heavier brand than any rune he’s ever born and then before either the Silent Brother or the attending High Warlock can continue, can say anything. A hand pulls him close, lips press to his own and teeth bite down on his bottom lip in a harsh claim that has Alec sagging against Bane, the only thing in the silence is his shocked whimper and quiet moan.

—

Magnus is... more than pleased. His spies gave him tidbits, but he truly didn’t know just who he’d agreed to bond himself to. Yet one mortal lifetime of irritation and mutual disgust would be worth it, if it gave him some peace and quiet.

In truth, it had been meant as more of a way to acquire a political hostage than as an actual marriage. However even with all their prejudices, nephilim would rather sacrifice one of their own — practically forcing them into a type of exile — than to risk looking weak. A political hostage was something made from concession but a marriage could well enough  _ sound  _ like a mutual agreement, rather than a necessary stalemate to a long drawn out war.

A war Magnus has grown weary of. He did not mind the battles. Nor did he mind the hordes of demons he’s wielded in sacrifice for his subjects. But he despises the deaths of  _ his  _ children. Of every warlock child under his sovereignty who had been brought up in fear. To know only of hiding and pain and that they could be considered a trophy of war in death. In that he grew angry and his rage fueled him until he had very nearly brought Alicante to its knees.

Despite all of that, he had known he couldn’t  _ truly  _ win. His conquest would have come at a cost and would not be a true victory. For even if he destroyed the capitol, even if he spent the next hundred lifetimes of nephilim slaughtering them all, it wouldn’t be worth the death of every child butchered in their beds. So he had forced a stalemate, and he had been content in the knowledge that he had done what no greater demon ever had. He had brought Idris to its knees and her royalty to disgrace.

So he had been content, even smug with his victory. Binding a nephilim to him was a simple thing in the end. They accept his sovereignty and his magic would know if the oath was broken. And for the next fifty years, while the nephilim plot and lick their wounds and grumble in the dregs of their disgrace, by the time the oath is fulfilled their children will only know of their shame. The newborn nephilim will not know war as these ones had. So that if war is to come once again, it will be to nephilim who know naught but stories of a long lost brutality and have faced nothing more than demons in the night. Ones who have not tested the mettle of their angelic blood against the might of those scorned, whose memories are far longer.

And yet, it seems he has gained himself another prize. A new treasure to hoard and to show off with pride. 

He wore the cloak to remind them of who  _ he  _ is. Of  _ what  _ he is. That this is the result of  _ his  _ actions and his demands. The plan had been to give his husband a magical amulet. A gaudy though not completely tasteless medallion to hang around his neck. It would have been a kingly choice. Priceless for all the magic that Magnus had poured into it but ultimately devoid of anything but political needs and a way to keep the nephilim on a leash.

Then he sees his shadowhunter and the amulet stays stored away, his magic already beginning to crackle along the metal. No. That will be saved for later, after the consummation of their bond and once Magnus reworks the design to something more...  _ fitting. _

Instead it is his cloak that he reaches for. His victories that he now pulls tightly over his newest spoil of war. Once one of the greatest and most priceless things in his possession, it now covers his most valued one.

There is no need for a kiss. But Magnus wants one and as Alexander hands over his weapons — items so steeped in his angelic grace that Magnus can taste his very essence — as with all things, if it’s something he wants, therefore he will take it.

From the way Alexander sways into him, the surprised adoration and guileless want that brushes away the tactical awareness he’d seen when he’d first walked in, that same want is returned. He takes it, as he takes all his triumphs, with delight and a savage enjoyment that only echoes and grows at the whimper that sounds in the silence. The tiny moan that follows when Magnus suckles the blood from where he bit Alexander’s lip. He’s cold and rigid at first touch and then melts into Magnus’ hold. Mouth opening before Magnus can demand it and noises slipping free without choice. With one hand he cradles Alec’s jaw and the other he slips between the cloak and Alexander’s shirt, rucking up the fabric with magic until his hand meets skin. The magic of their new bond is lush and vivid and Alec’s hitching breath and the way he greedily presses against Magnus tells him everything he needs to know.

He rakes his fingers down Alexander’s spine, knowing that the marks he leaves there will be there for the rest of the ceremony and allows himself the pleasure of one more taste. When they part, Alec’s lips are bruised and shiny, a bloody imprint from Magnus’ teeth against the bottom one. Magnus leans forward and very deliberately licks it off, magic healing the cut, but not the imprint and then turns to the crowd. It is still deathly silent. 

His magic can feel the fury, shame, horror and other ridiculous emotions of the nephilim present and it only feeds his power. His side, the Downworlders of the Shadowworld are no less stunned. Some disgusted, most gleeful and a few disapproving.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Not their opinions, their thoughts nor their feelings and he makes that clear. His magic surges and everyone of his subjects feels the presence of his might. 

He smiles, his lips smeared with a bit of Alexander’s blood that he hadn’t bothered to lick off and behind him, the hesitant but clear announcement of their union is made. 

It is done. Peace for a time is his. And Alexander is his, for eternity. 

**Author's Note:**

> Magnus' cloak carries over from another one of my fics I'm still working on 'same coin different side' where Magnus is a prince of hell who wears a cloak made of nephilim feathers from those he's killed and he basically fucks Alec on it. I really love the cloak so it's being incorporated into other fics.
> 
> If I've missed any tags, please let me know! Enjoy
> 
> I'm on tumblr as [alexanderlightweight](https://alexanderlightweight.tumblr.com)


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